


i am severely metally ill and have decided to project onto tommy

by orphan_account



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Author Projecting onto TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Violent Thoughts, what the fuck is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29459517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: hi, i wrote this at 3am because i needed to get some shit somewhere other than my head. it is literally just tommy panicking over the idea of being caught self-harming and then fantasizing about his own death (which is not what it was intended to be originally, but oh well). it's also poorly written, and will most likely be orphaned as if i decide to start posting works on here i don't want this shit under my name. enjoy ?
Kudos: 28





	i am severely metally ill and have decided to project onto tommy

tommy hates looking at his arms.

he hates the way a mere glance at them can send him spiralling into a panic attack. he hates the way that, each time he looks at them, the scars that had tarnished the skin for months appeared more noticeable than when he had last looked at them. he hates that he can _hear_ the disappointment in his dad's words when he, inevitability, finds out. 

he knows that they _will_ be noticed—he can't escape it. he's scared, _so fucking scared_ , of what will happen when his family finally finds out. they'll be disappointed in him, he's sure of that. maybe they'll yell at him, too—decide they'd rather not be the ones to deal with his mental baggage, have him stuffing his possessions in garbage bags to then send him off to some mental hospital.

he doesn't belong in a mental hospital, does he?

sometimes, he tells himself it's better than it is—that each mark will dissipate in a few months time. the reassurance is nice, but the almost-year-old marks that decorate his upper arm—melding with his skin, but still noticeable if you're looking for them—argue otherwise.

he can't go swimming anymore, either. he could, last year, when he adorned only a few, small marks. but he can't, now. he now wears marks, in varying sizes, up and down each arm. some are still tinted a crepe pink, some pale as his skin. 

he wishes he could rummage phil's bathroom cabinets, find one of the flimsy, and cheap, brightly coloured razors the older keeps as spares. wishes he could pick them apart the plastic that shields the blades with a pair of scissors. wishes he could dig one of the tiny pieces of metal into his skin, across his wrists and along his veins.

wishes he could watch the blood cascade down his arm, onto the floor, before his consciousness slips from him and he meets with his own blood on the cool tiles.

of course, he knows he can't.

his family would find him. he might live. they would be disappointed, and he would have to face them.

if he _were_ to try and take his own life, he would do everything he could to make it _work_. maybe he'd bite the bullet. maybe he'd put a knife through his head. maybe he'd pay someone to do it—make it easier on himself. maybe he'd litter his entire body in cuts because he _can_ , before gorging himself on any pills he could get his hands on.

he thinks he'd like to go somewhere away from home, too. he, for whatever reason, always felt drawn to the idea of running away. maybe they'd never find him. at the same time, though, he doesn't want to leave them with false hope, that maybe he's still out there.

maybe he'd leave a note, letting them know he's dead, and he's sorry.

a soft sigh leaves his lips, his eyebrows furrowed in disturbance as he realizes he's fantasizing about his own death.

maybe he _does_ belong in a mental hospital.


End file.
